Two hours before it's all over and it's just not working for you

Poring on the computer for days, tap-tap-tap-tapping on in the hopes of finally getting something down and actually being able to keep it there, toying with thin tendrils and trains of thought that tore through the broken tracks. (the endings of your frayed nerves)

And all the while the clock's hands kept moving (tick-tick-tick-tick) making passes over the mocking leer of the numbers on the face below; a face that smirked and snickered and teased you ever onwards through the torture that is your own inhibitions.

It's still there, that little niggling itch that urges you (write! write! write!) and tempts you and fetters the little rebellious thoughts (whichtranslatestoyourcommonSENSE!) that say "kid it just ain't happenin' today, no"; it aids and abetts your most daring dreams and the feverish fervors that plague all authors before the demon they call --

the deadline.